


Sherlock: Loss

by IBegToDreamAndDiffer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger, Character Death, Family, Friendship, Hurt, Loss, M/M, Romance, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 02:59:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IBegToDreamAndDiffer/pseuds/IBegToDreamAndDiffer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes loses Gregory Lestrade. And then, he loses himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock: Loss

**Author's Note:**

> Ownership: Original characters are owned by Arthur Conan Doyle, these versions are owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I just get to play.

Gregory Lestrade was a beautiful man. No, he _had_ been a beautiful man. He’d been marvellous, extraordinary, normal yet wonderful at the same time.

He had immediately caught Mycroft Holmes’ eye. It was his stubbornness, his ability to ignore Sherlock’s shit and get down to what mattered that intrigued Mycroft. He was a good cop, a damn fine man, and had listened to a drug addict’s ramblings and taken him on board.

It was Gregory who got Sherlock clean, not Mycroft. It was Gregory who took Sherlock under his arm and guided him through a world filled with criminals and murder and arseholes who’d point and laugh at Sherlock. It was Gregory who showed Sherlock what it truly meant to be alive, to be human and help people.

No, it _had_ been Gregory. Because Gregory was gone.

Dead.

Buried.

No longer alive.

_Gone_.

Mycroft Holmes tried to keep the tears back but, like every other day since Gregory had died, they came freely. They stung his eyes and made them ache, made his body shudder and his hands curl into fists.

They made Mycroft Holmes feel lost and destructive and unbelievably sad. They dripped down his nose, his chin, falling onto his thousand pound shirt. His waistcoat and jacket lay abandoned on the floor. Gregory had always liked Mycroft casual.

His Gregory, Gregory his friend then later boyfriend, fiancé, husband, _everything_...

Gone.

Lost.

Gone _forever_.

A wave of memories crashed over Mycroft and he leaned back in his seat. His study was cold, dark, the only light coming from his repeatedly flashing BlackBerry. That would be Anthea, or Sherlock, or John, all three checking up on him constantly after Gregory...

Mycroft remembers meeting Gregory, kidnapping him and taking him to a warehouse to interrogate him about Sherlock. Like all good cops, Gregory refused any bribes or payoffs and threatened to smack Mycroft if the man didn’t let him go. Mycroft was intrigued by his defiance, his ability to push away fear and show his feelings.

From that day Mycroft Holmes was captivated.

It took five very long years before Mycroft admitted it. He watched Gregory from afar; watched him work with Sherlock, help Sherlock, take care of Sherlock. He watched Gregory have more fun with the younger Holmes then he’d ever had in his life; chasing criminals, sometimes chasing Sherlock, performing drugs busts and sharing cigarettes and giving Sherlock a place to crash.

He watched Gregory’s private life decline, his wife get more and more fed up until she was cheating. Gregory just went through it all, the loss of his wife made up for with Sherlock’s gallivanting around London. For a while that worked; Gregory and Sherlock worked.

And then John Watson came.

It wasn’t that Gregory didn’t like John; he was a good man, a damn fine doctor, and excellent at taking care of Sherlock. Like Mycroft, Gregory sat by and watched John turn Sherlock from an out-of-control madman to a human genius. They both watched as Sherlock slowly began to grow better, to not need Mycroft or Gregory anymore.

That was when Mycroft went to him, offered his hand in friendship. And Gregory, as the down-to-earth, good cop he was, told Mycroft to stick it. He understood, of course. Gregory’s marriage was failing, the only man he could possibly call a friend was leaving. Gregory had no one and he didn’t want Mycroft; a stranger who had kidnapped him five years ago.

But slowly he warmed to Mycroft as Mycroft kept appearing, always extending his hand and trying to keep his feelings down. He would not force himself on Gregory. He would take anything; hate, friendship, love, whatever it was as long as it involved Gregory Lestrade.

And, slowly, Gregory Lestrade moved from hate to acquaintance to... he didn’t move to lover until Sherlock disappeared. Gregory was hit hard like John; they both thought he was dead. Mycroft knew better, of course, he was funding Sherlock’s hunt for Moriarty’s organisation.

He was there for Gregory and John; to lend a hand and a shoulder when both men broke down. And one night, when far too much alcohol and cigarettes led to declarations, he was there with his body and heart to bring Gregory Lestrade back.

Gregory loved Mycroft then and admitted it the next morning when sober, apologising if he led Mycroft to believe that it was just the alcohol. Mycroft just took his hand and smiled.

For three years Mycroft was everything to Gregory and John; he was either friend or lover or enemy or financer. He was there when John broke down or when Gregory got shot. He was there when both men wanted to give up. As always, with everyone he loved, Mycroft Holmes was there.

And when Sherlock returned Mycroft was there even more. He was there to stop Gregory breaking Sherlock’s nose (he wasn’t fast enough to stop John as well). He was there for Gregory when the detective got drunk and cried that his best mate had gone and fucked him over, had lied. He was there for John when the doctor said he loved and hated and wanted Sherlock Holmes. He was there when Sherlock cried, thinking he’d lost the one man he loved more than anything.

Mycroft brought them back together, he was the pillar they all leaned on. He watched his boyfriend, his lover, the man he loved, hug Sherlock and tell him to never fuck around again. He watched John jump Sherlock and haul him to the floor, clothes flying and lips pressing together.

All was well, then. Years of turmoil was finally put to rest. Sherlock went back to chasing lunatics across London, John Watson at his side. Gregory went back to arresting killers, never a dull moment with those other two.

And Mycroft went back to watching the three men he loved, smiling when he saw Gregory in his surveillance footage or in each other’s beds.

Gregory asked Mycroft to move in with him. Mycroft suggested his flat would be better. They agreed after a lot of rough sex. Gregory moved in and Mycroft was happier than he ever had been. He didn’t care that Gregory left his stuff everywhere or smoked in the bathroom (he tried to hide it but Mycroft could tell). The takeaway and messiness and horrible taste in music/books/DVD’s couldn’t change the fact that after five years of pining, Mycroft Holmes finally had Gregory Lestrade.

They argued. And had sex. And ate dinner together and kissed and made up and generally just lived.

Mycroft couldn’t have been happier.

It was Gregory who proposed, who asked Mycroft to be his husband. Mycroft said yes with his lips and tongue, his hands and cock and arse and general body.

Hours later, both exhausted and beyond exhilarated, Mycroft Holmes breathed, ‘Yes.’

And Gregory Lestrade slipped the ring onto his finger.

It was a small ceremony, only Sherlock and John attending, Anthea officiating. Gregory kissed him and whispered, ‘I love you, Mycroft Holmes.’

And Mycroft loved him back.

The honeymoon was in Spain and America and France and any other place Mycroft saw fit. He had a private jet and whisked Gregory around the world in a month, teaching him languages and culture and only the weird stuff Mycroft Holmes could know.

Life had never been better for Mycroft and he hated to think about the times before Gregory came into his life. They were married seven years. Seven long years before it happened.

A bullet. One simple bullet tore Mycroft’s world apart and it couldn’t be fixed. A kid, an eleven-year-old, walking around and trying to be tough and join a gang. Gregory had stopped him after noticing suspicious behaviour, had stepped from his car with Sally Donovan.

The kid pointed the gun and Gregory raised his hands.

One shot. One shot to the head, a lucky shot for an inexperienced kid.

It tore everything down, made everything dark and cold and _bad_. It was bad, so bad, so terrible and horrible and...

Mycroft had refused to believe it until he saw Gregory’s body. He’d been at home, angrily awaiting the DI who was late for lunch. Sally Donovan called. He went to Bart’s.

Gregory. His Gregory. His beautiful, wonderful husband, was dead.

Cold. Lifeless. Brown eyes never to open again. Lips never to pull wide into a smile that could make Mycroft’s knees weak. Never again to say, ‘I love you’, or ‘Get in bed now, you lunatic’.

Never. Never, ever again.

Gone.

Finished.

Dead.

Lost.

The following week was hazy. Sherlock was there, and John and Anthea and a few people Mycroft didn’t care about. There were drugs to knock him out, stop him getting hysterical and shouting. After that... after that there was anger.

Anger at Sally Donovan for being alive.

Anger at the kid for shooting the love of his life.

Anger at himself for being angry at Gregory while he laid dead on the pavement.

And finally, anger at everything. Every goddamn person who got to live while dear Gregory was dead.

It had been three months now; three long months with no Gregory. Mycroft blinked through the tears. His eyes hurt. His head hurt. Everything... it was black and painful, like his heart and soul had been torn free and left ragged holes.

Sobs raked his body and Mycroft’s face fell into his hands, nails clawing at his skull and leaving thick red lines. His stomach clenched painfully but Mycroft ignored it.

The past three months had been nothing but black sludge and lies. Sherlock had talked to him, had asked how he was. At first Mycroft just screamed. How could he ever be okay with Gregory gone?

When the anger was replaced by hurt and loss, Mycroft cried into his brother’s arms, or John’s arms, sometimes even Anthea’s. He cried until he fell asleep. And when he woke up he cried some more.

The tears left but the pain didn’t. It would never leave. Gregory had been everything to Mycroft. Without him the politician was nothing.

Food went uneaten.

Meetings went unattended.

Everything just stopped, lost meaning. Mycroft stopped living.

His body and mind and life broke down completely.

Sherlock was worried, worried Mycroft would do something stupid. It took Mycroft two months to convince everyone he was fine. He lied so well he almost started to believe it himself.

Almost.

Mycroft raised his head and slowly, very slowly, undid his cuffs. He rolled both sleeves up and kicked off his shoes. Comfortable, right? He wanted to be comfortable. And Gregory always liked it when he rolled up his sleeves.

He wouldn’t like this, though. He’d want Mycroft to live; to continue working and fighting with Sherlock and enjoying wine. Gregory would want Mycroft to find someone else to love, to find someone else to share his life with.

Mycroft couldn’t do that. Gregory had been his life. There was nothing now.

He took the tourniquet and fascinated it around his bicep, flexing his arm until a vein popped up. He took the syringe in steady hands, never more sure of anything in his life. Mycroft had never tried cocaine, not once, but he needed it right now; needed it to end the hurt, the sadness.

His mobile buzzed again and Mycroft left it. Let it ring, he didn’t care. For now there was just the drugs; the drugs that would let him be with Gregory.

He slipped the needle in and pushed down, the drugs entering his system quickly. Mycroft tore the tourniquet free and pulled his pocket watch out. He flicked it open as he waited for the high to hit.

Inside was a small picture of him and Gregory on their two year anniversary. The watch had been a gift from Gregory and Mycroft loved it; carried it all the time. It only seemed fitting that he carry it with him to his death.

The high hit and Mycroft groaned. Though it was good, though it made his brain run and his skin tingle, the pain was still there. No, nothing could take away the pain.

Mycroft’s head was swimming, his eyelids feeling fuzzy. His tongue was thick as he licked his lips, vision going blurry.

‘I love you, Gregory,’ Mycroft whispered and pressed a kiss to the picture.

Slowly, everything went still and silent. Everything faded away until there was just Mycroft and the picture.

Just Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade and loss.

And then, there wasn’t even that.

 

~M~

 

Hours later Mycroft was found by Anthea, who dropped and wept openly as she stared at the body of her boss.

There was no note. There was no email or voicemail or call or text or anything from Mycroft Holmes. Nobody needed to be told why he’d killed himself.

It was clear, it was obvious.

For Mycroft, Gregory Lestrade had been his life. Without him Mycroft was nothing.

And he couldn’t face the world without Gregory.

The funeral was very private with only three people attending; Anthea, John Watson and Sherlock Holms. Sherlock was on so many pills he could barely stand straight. John held him up, all three openly crying as Mycroft’s coffin was lowered into the spot beside Gregory’s.

The priest talked, nobody listened. Then they were alone and Sherlock just stared, silent tears coating his cheeks as he tried to push away the anger, the terror, the knowledge that Mycroft, his big brother, was gone forever.

John squeezed Sherlock tightly, his own tears dripping down his face. Anthea whimpered before burying her head in John’s shoulder, the doctor having to wrap his free arm around her.

They were gone now; Mycroft and Greg. Both were quick deaths, mostly painless, but they’d left behind a mountain of hurt. For Mycroft it had been too much. _His_ pain, though, was finally over; he was with Greg now.

The hardest hit were the people left behind. Sherlock, John, Anthea, and all the other people affected by those two brilliant men had to deal with the aftermath and try to live.

John knew Sherlock would never recover, not completely. He would continue living for John but there’d always be a bit of him missing. A part of Sherlock had died that day with Mycroft.

They left soon after, rain dripping onto their clothes and soaking them. Not one of them noticed until Sherlock whispered, ‘We don’t have an umbrella.’

John managed a small chuckle devoid of humour, Anthea a squeak. They climbed into one of the black cars that Sherlock would now always have access to thanks to Mycroft’s will. It drove in silence, the occupants trying to feel something other than hurt and pain and sorrow.

But there was nothing else.

No, for now there was only loss.

 

~FIN~


End file.
